


Headed for the Sun

by Euphyxia



Series: Apocalypse Blue [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Danger, Knifeplay, M/M, Rough Sex, Shaving, Shaving as foreplay, Stitches, Topping from the Bottom, lots of sin, so much sin, wounded!courier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 01:06:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4501914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euphyxia/pseuds/Euphyxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's still something about Courier Six. Arcade finally has an idea what that something might be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Headed for the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Took me forever to finish this, but here it is. Thanks for the kudos and bookmarks on the first part!
> 
> There are references that will make more sense if you've read the first story in this series, but Temptation's Wings isn't really required reading if you're just here for the sexy bits.

A week's gone by since the incident at the Atomic Wrangler, but the memories are vivid in Arcade's mind. Seven whole days and he can still feel the kid's skin against his. 

It's becoming a bit of a problem.

They've moved on from Freeside, back out into the wastes. They spend several days in and out of Camp McCarran, hunting fiends for the NCR. Arcade suspects it's less for the NCR's benefit and more so Six can crack some skulls. He doesn't begrudge the kid that. If nothing else, it earns them enough caps to ensure they won't be going hungry that week.

From McCarran, they head northwest, past the Strip, and it's looking more and more like the courier is avoiding the Strip on purpose. The kid's had intel on Benny for a while; killing him should be easy if they can get him alone. But the closest they've been to The Tops is Freeside. They've yet to even set foot inside the Strip proper.

Arcade doesn't push the issue. It's not his revenge to take, though damned if he doesn't feel inexplicably protective of the courier all of a sudden.

Not that Six needs protecting, of course. He's a little scrawny, sure, but with that laser rifle in his hands, the kid's a force of nature. 

They have a long road ahead of them. As the crow flies, Jacobstown isn't much further than Vault 22, but it's only accessible one way. It'll take them the better part of a day to traverse the long, winding path through the mountains. On Arcade's suggestion, they stop for the night at the Followers safehouse. They've been hanging onto the key for a while now, and it's on the way. Most importantly, it has beds. Arcade's not sure his back can take another night sleeping on the ground.

It's sunset by the time they reach the safehouse. Arcade's relatively unscathed, but Six's arm is bleeding, grazed by a bullet earlier in the day. _It's just a scratch, Doc_ , he'd said. But Arcade's not so easily convinced. There's a lot of blood staining the kid's leather armour. But they'd both agreed it wasn't safe to tend to the wound out in the open, not when Six needs to wriggle his arm free of the leather and leave himself vulnerable. Arcade had reluctantly agreed to wait.

The safehouse is modest and surprisingly clean by wasteland standards. Once they're safely inside, they lock the door and Arcade can finally get to work. Like the flip of a switch, he's in doctor mode. He drops his pack on one of the beds and turns eyes on his patient.

"Let me see," he says, gesturing to the courier's arm. "I need to know what I'm dealing with."

Six knows enough not to argue when Arcade's in doctor mode. He merely sighs and unfastens the fewest number of clasps and buckles necessary to shove the material down to his elbow. There's an inadvertent wince from the kid as his wound is exposed to the air.

It's worse than Arcade expects. A long gash, right across the outside of Six's bicep, at least half an inch deep. His pale skin is smeared crimson all the way down to his elbow. The wound itself is definitely on the grotesque side, having been festering under his leather armour for hours in the hot sun. The smell of blood and sweat off the kid is overwhelming. It hits Arcade all at once, heavy as it invades his nostrils, and suddenly he's angry. If he'd known Six had been clipped this badly, he never would have agreed to wait. He could have at least stopped the bleeding. It worries Arcade that the wound hasn't even begun to clot.

The courier, however, isn't even looking at his injury. He doesn't seem the least bit concerned by it, even though there must be pain. No, his eyes are on Arcade. Watching him. Six has even tipped the brim of his cap up for an unobstructed view of the taller man's face. His habit of hiding beneath the hat has all but stopped sometime in the past week.

"What's the verdict?" the kid asks. His tone is far too light and playful for the topic at hand. "You gonna amputate?"

The doctor frowns. He doesn't appreciate his genuine concern being mocked. "Don't joke about that," he says, taking a step back. "Being an amputee in the wasteland is a death sentence. And that's only if you survive the initial surgery." Arcade's more familiar with the procedure than he'd like. He's performed three amputations in his life—three too many, as far as he's concerned.

To his credit, the kid does seem mildly apologetic and refrains from any further comments.

"Take the armour off. We need to get your arm washed and disinfected," Arcade tells him, and leaves the courier to his task.

A quick search of the refrigerators and footlockers in the room produces some useful supplies. He returns to the bed with a few stimpaks, some vodka, and a bottle of water. Six's armour is in a pile on the ground. He's perched on the edge of the bed in a ratty grey t-shirt and black boxers, both of which cling to his skin with sweat. Arcade hands him one of the stimpaks and watches the kid inject it into his thigh.

"That will help the blood clot, but it's still going to need stitches."

Six knows the routine. This isn't the first time Arcade's had to stitch him up, and it won't be the last. He automatically rolls his sleeve at the shoulder to keep it out of the way and extends his arm toward the other man.

Arcade retrieves a clean cloth from his doctor's bag and and arms himself with the bottle of water. "I'm just going to wipe away the blood," he declares, waiting for Six's nod before proceeding.

He angles the bottle against the kid's shoulder and lets a modest stream of water trickle down over the bloodied skin. The courier doesn't wince this time, which Arcade interprets as a good sign. He begins with a few gentle downward swipes of the cloth. Again, Six shows no outward signs of discomfort. The doctor continues, adding another drizzle of water until the area around the wound is clear of both fresh and dried blood. The white cloth is stained crimson when he finally sets it aside.

With all the blood wiped away, Arcade's able to examine the injury a bit better. The flesh around the wound is angry and red, but there are no signs of infection. It's a small relief.

"They got you pretty good," he remarks. It must have been an armour-piercing round to rip through the courier's heavy leather.

They'd been ambushed by a couple of powder gangers camped inside an abandoned farmhouse. Nothing they couldn't handle. But with Six scouting out front, he'd been spotted first and had paid the price for being caught off-guard. 

In the end, however, the powder gangers had paid with their lives. A well-aimed shot from Arcade's plasma pistol took care of one. Under the eyebot's cover fire, the kid had gone in close and let his switchblade do the rest.

"You ready?" Arcade asks. He swaps the water for the vodka and pulls out his makeshift sewing kit. "I know this isn't exactly your favourite part." 

Six turns a mischievous eye on the supplies. "I don't know. Liquor, needles... could be a good time."

It's such a distracting comment that Arcade's usually-nimble fingers fumble with the needle. It takes him several attempts to thread it. "You must have lost more blood than I thought," he says, shaking his head.

The kid laughs. A quirk of his lips follows, but nothing else. Arcade's secretly thankful for the silence so he can resume his concentration on the task at hand. He cracks the vodka open and uses it to sterilize his needle and thread.

"Pour some over the area," he says, handing the bottle to Six. "Make sure it gets inside." Short of cauterizing the wound, it's the best they can do to ensure it's disinfected. 

Six does as instructed, pouring a stream of the clear liquid down over his injured arm. He hisses when the alcohol makes contact with the broken flesh, but repeats the motion a second time to be thorough. Once he's satisfied with the job, he winks up at the doctor and downs a mouthful from the bottle.

_Of course_ , Arcade thinks, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. This is the first bit of alcohol they've come across in several days, and Six clearly won't be letting it go to waste. The kid's usually more of a whiskey drinker, but out it the wastes where luxuries are scarce, he can't be picky. Nor can they take it with them. They travel too light for such things.

"Should I be worried that you can drink that stuff straight?" the doctor asks. He's not sure why the vodka worries him more than the whiskey, but it does. Maybe it's the smell. It reminds him of the addicts back at the Fort, the ones constantly drifting in and out of the Followers care. Arcade treated his share of them, witnessed so many fall off the wagon. And through everything, he's still never seen anyone pound hard liquor the way Six does.

It really _should_ worry him. Especially when the courier is so nonchalant about it. Case in point, the kid merely shrugs off the comment and dips his gaze to the needle in Arcade's hands. It's clear he wants to get the stitches over with. They both do. The sooner this is handled, the sooner they can rest. The doctor can't argue with that, so the subject is dropped and he sets to work.

The first pierce of the kid's flesh is tentative, and a bit traumatic for them both. Six curses under his breath, wincing hard as Arcade drags the needle through the skin and pulls the string taut after it.

"Talk to me," Arcade says, pausing to study the reaction on his patient's face. "How's the pain? If you need another stimpak—"

"I'm fine, Doc," the kid grunts. His blue eyes are fixed on the wound now, staring intently at the first stitch. He takes another sip from the bottle. "Keep going."

The rest of the stitches proceed much like the first; Six's teeth are clenched while Arcade's fingers work steadily at his task. The kid's eyes flutter closed several times during the process, but he seems to endure the pain just fine, and it's not long before the torn flesh is mended. The doctor ties off the string and snips the loose end before leaning back to examine his work.

"Nineteen," Arcade declares. The final tally is less than he expected, for such a gruesome wound. "One for every year of your life, huh?" 

The courier just shrugs. "I wouldn't know." He tries to hide the bitterness in his voice, but it's a losing battle. "Doc Mitchell said I was twenty, but that was just an educated guess. Something to do with my wisdom teeth. I wasn't much help."

Right. Arcade frowns, feeling incredibly tactless. If he were half as good at sensing danger as he was at putting his foot in his mouth, perhaps they wouldn't have been ambushed in the first place. He begins to apologize for the comment, but the kid cuts him off with a shake of his head. 

_He doesn't want your sympathy_ , the doctor has to remind himself. _Let it go._

Arcade busies himself by cleaning off his equipment and packing it back inside his doctor's bag. When he finally zips the thing up and sets it aside, Six's eyes are on him again. For some reason, it makes him nervous. They're still sitting rather close to one another.

"I don't know about you, but I could sure use a shave," Arcade says. He runs his fingertips over a week's worth of blond stubble. "Shame there's no running water." The mention of running water reminds him of the shower at the Atomic Wrangler and the doctor has to clear his throat to be rid of the memories.

The kid's hand rises to feel his own stubble almost thoughtfully. His is dark and a little patchy in places, but still short. It doesn't grow as fast as Arcade's.

"I'll live," Six replies. He's back to his usual self, it seems, as a mischievous smirk plays about his lips. "But I owe you one, Doc. Let me take care of it for you."

For a moment, Arcade thinks he's heard him wrong. "You want to shave my beard? Like a barber?" He wonders briefly if this is some kind of euphemism he's not familiar with.

Yet the courier simply nods and rises from the bed. He reaches down to his discarded armour and pulls something free. Something familiar and sharp that glints when it catches the light. It's the kid's butterfly knife, and there's still blood on it. Arcade can't seem to find his voice. How many throats has Six cut with that very knife?

The kid uses some of the vodka to clean and disinfect the blade while Arcade watches. He is shamefully transfixed by the sight. It's those deft fingers. Capable of so much more than killing...

Arcade shouldn't feel worried, but he does.

He swallows hard. "If I've outlived my usefulness, you _can_ just tell me to take a hike," he says, only half-joking.

Six laughs. It's an honest-to-god, wholehearted laugh with no malice behind it. "I wasn't lying when I said I needed a big strong doctor to patch me up, Arcade."

The doctor doesn't think he's ever heard Six address him by his actual name before. The kid's _said_ it, sure, usually when introducing him and the robot to someone. But in casual conversation, he's always just been _Doc_. Naturally Arcade hated the epithet, cheeky as it was, but it's grown on him, much the way Six himself has done.

"Don't think I can be gentle, do you?"

The thought may have crossed Arcade's mind. Though the look in Six's eyes is one of stubborn determination. He'll be gentle all right, if only to prove the older man wrong. 

The courier liberates their lone bottle of shaving cream from Arcade's pack and squeezes a dollop into his open palm. They've been conserving it for weeks, the only surviving can they've come across in the wastes, and it's clear now that the kid is really going to do this. It's not a euphemism for sex. He really wants to shave the doctor's beard. 

And for whatever messed up reason, Arcade lets him.

It's a strange feeling when Six begins to lather his face. To have such a routine part of one's personal grooming performed by another person... it's strangely intimate. Nearly as intimate as the feel of Six curling up behind him that night at the Wrangler. The whole thing leaves Arcade a little dumbstruck, such that he barely notices when the kid's done with with the shaving cream. Six gives him a few gentle nudges, repositioning Arcade with his legs crossed and his back as close to the edge of the bed as possible. It's all so the courier can stand close behind him, like a real barber would, at a height that makes it easy to carry out his task.

"Lean back against me, and tilt your head up," Six tells him. 

The new position means trusting the kid to support some of Arcade's weight. He hesitates, not exactly thrilled by the idea of falling backward off the mattress, especially if that deadly butterfly knife is going to be anywhere near his throat. A long pause ensues, but Six waits it out. He must know Arcade pretty damn well, because the doctor does eventually comply, resting back gently against the kid's body. A sharp hipbone presses into one of his shoulder blades, and while it's not enough to hurt, Arcade would hardly call Six a comfortable backrest. He tilts his head up as instructed, meeting curious blue eyes that have clearly been watching him. It's an odd, but not unpleasant angle. He can actually see the underside of the brim of Six's cap, which may well be a first.

A hand comes down on Arcade's shoulder to steady him. "You take instruction pretty well, Doc," Six muses. His voice has dropped an octave or two, and he feels warm where Arcade's back is pressed against him through their clothing.

The doctor frowns, suddenly impatient. "Are you going to do this or not?"

Six merely smirks and draws the blade close to Arcade's cheek. When the sharp edge first makes contact at his jaw, Arcade tenses. He's flushed beneath the thin layer of shaving cream, viscerally aware of the cold press of metal against his heated skin. His heart is beating so quickly now, and it's taking all of his willpower to remain perfectly still.

The kid doesn't hesitate. He drags the blade from Arcade's jawline up over his cheek in one measured motion. It cuts easily through the stubble, though there's still a bit of pull as the hair is removed. The accompanying sting is lessened by the shaving cream, and truthfully it's not so different from the way Arcade usually does this.

What _is_ different is the feel of Six behind him, supporting his weight. The steadying hand on Arcade's shoulder has moved up now, to the top of his head where Six can maneuver it better. He uses it to alter the angle and works the blade up and over the next section of the doctor's face.

And damn if Six isn't deliberately gentle as he goes. Every drag of that razor-sharp knife across Arcade's skin is perfectly controlled. Precise. The smoother Arcade's face becomes, the further Six has proved him wrong. It's infuriating.

When it comes time for the wayward stubble on his neck, Six reaches for Arcade's jaw and uses it to tilt the man's head back further. His neck is bared now, exposed to the blade, and he's looking straight up into the kid's smiling eyes. 

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

Arcade's pulse races. He has a couple of snarky comments on the tip of his tongue, but ultimately, he'd be lying if he said it didn't feel good on some level. Leaning against Six is strangely comforting, and that hand on his jaw... it's doing things it shouldn't, especially with that blade so close. Maybe all that time spent in the sun is finally catching up to him, because he can't possibly be getting hard. Not from this...

The first touch of the blade to his throat makes it all too clear that, yes, he is indeed getting off on this. Arcade's dick gives an interested twitch inside his khakis and he's left reeling.

Is it the knife? The danger? He's been sexually adventurous in the past, or so he thought, but this is something else. Something new. _Maybe it's not the knife_ , Arcade thinks. _Maybe it's just him._

Another long drag of the blade up the curve of the doctor's jaw, and this time Arcade actually shivers. His body is thoroughly invested in the proceedings, though the kid hasn't noticed anything amiss yet. He's still focused on his task, but the distraction will only last so long. Six _will_ notice.

And this time, Arcade wants him to. 

He's more than willing to brave any initial embarrassment if this leads to a repeat of their night at the Wrangler. His body certainly knows what it wants. He's already leaning into the courier a bit harder, all too aware of the places they're connected. The familiar tightness at the front of his khakis compels him to uncross his legs, and that motion does finally draw Six's attention. His eyes follow Arcade's movements as the doctor slowly spreads each leg out in front of him on the bed just to ease the strain.

The courier's still holding him by the jaw, keeping his head tipped back. Arcade can't look down, can't tell if his arousal is obvious or not, but from the way Six meets his gaze and just _grins_ at him, it must be. And that grin... it's something else, it really is. Predatory, with just a glimpse of those sharp incisors. And those full, pink lips...

Christ, what _is_ it about this kid?

The blade is still at his throat, but Arcade swallows hard anyway. It soon moves up to the sensitive hollow just beneath his jaw, and that's enough to elicit another shiver. This time, the reaction doesn't go unnoticed.

"You're full of surprises, Doc," Six states. It seems like an accurate summary of events, all things considered. "I like that about you."

There's a quiet reverence to the kid's voice. It's almost pensive. Silence befalls the room once more, and it's then that Arcade realizes he's stubble-free. The shaving is done. He's got the smooth and slightly cold face to prove it.

And still, the knife remains in Six's hand, now clean of shaving cream. He hasn't let it fall from Arcade's throat, hasn't stowed it away. The longer it remains there, the greater the doctor's unease. The blade is so achingly sharp, all it would take is the smallest amount of pressure to pierce his skin...

Then, suddenly, it _does_. The pointed tip of the blade, drawn along that sensitive hollow below his jaw, just enough to break the skin. The noise that comes out of Arcade is somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and the resulting sting shoots straight to his core. He doesn't dare move his head, but his legs are squirming on the bed before he can stop them.

A dark chuckle cuts through the silence, and the doctor is vaguely aware of a calloused fingertip tracing the blade's path. It comes away smeared with several drops of blood. Arcade watches, breathless, as that digit is raised to Six's mouth. It disappears between his lips with a pleased sigh, as though the crimson nectar is a delicacy to be savoured.

"Interesting idea of foreplay you have," Arcade quips. He's amazed that he's able to force his voice out at an even tone, let alone form a complete sentence. He doesn't feel quite as witty below the surface. In truth, he's a bit dizzy; the sting of the incision remains fresh, and he's somehow lost track of the knife during the chaos.

Six laughs, though he doesn't deny it. _Can't_ deny it, not when the evidence of his arousal is pressed tightly against Arcade's back. "Foreplay?" he asks, removing his finger from between his lips. "Is that what this is?"

The muscles in Arcade's neck are beginning to hurt from craning his head up at such a sharp angle. He's desperate for the upper hand, tempted to take some kind of affirmative action. Overpowering Six in brute strength would be easy if not for the knife, which remains somewhere out of view.

"I think having me at your mercy excites you," the doctor says, licking his lips. 

Six smirks down at him. His hand tightens its grip on Arcade's jaw, blunt fingernails digging into freshly-shaven skin. It's all the doctor can do to keep from squirming again. He feels like one raw nerve that Six is prodding at on purpose.

There's a touch at his throat. Not the blade this time, just the kid's finger, trailing a light path over the cut. Then, from one extreme to another, there's a hard yank at the back of Arcade's collar and he's being hauled off the bed. One hell of a head rush follows as the blood returns to his legs in record time.

"Take off your clothes."

The courier may be physically smaller, but his determination is a force to be reckoned with. No one keeps Six from what he wants. The ones that try never live long enough to tell the tale. And with the kid armed, Arcade's in no position to offer up more than a token resistance. As much as he wants control, he won't be getting the upper hand here. 

Six is twirling the knife casually in his hand, just daring Arcade to refuse the order. The blade has been wiped clean, its shiny steel edge catching the light as it slices through the air.

Arcade fears it unwise to stall any further and shrugs out of his lab coat. He's left in a button-up shirt and dust-stained khakis, both of which are damp with sweat. The doctor is glad for the chance to finally peel them off, and they're quick to join his lab coat on the floor at his feet.

Once he's down to his boxers, Arcade hesitates, though he's not quite sure why. It's not a matter of preserving his modesty; there isn't much of that left, not with the sizable wet spot gracing the front of his boxers. No, it's definitely about the power. Arcade can count on one hand the number of times he's given up control in bed. Submission doesn't come naturally to him. And yet, the promise of sex with the courier is so thrilling, the lure of it so _impossible_ to resist, that he's more than willing to try.

The boxers come down with a quiet sigh, followed closely by a cold, reflexive shiver. But there's nothing cold about the way Six is regarding him now. Arcade's got a surprisingly muscular build beneath the lab coat. The kid knows a bit about his body, enough at least to have caught a few naked glimpses of those broad shoulders and firm chest. But the dusting of pale hairs trailing down Arcade's stomach is new to him. There's a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth as he takes in the sight. 

It's not long before that heated gaze dips between Arcade's legs, and for a moment, the doctor forgets to breathe. The irony of being fully naked with Six still clad in his ratty t-shirt and boxers is not lost on Arcade. It's the exact opposite of how things played out the last time they did this, and that's no accident.

The courier continues twirling the blade in his hand, though with his attention fixed on the doctor's nude form, his movements have become somewhat lazy. Arcade swallows hard, waiting.

"On the bed," says Six.

There isn't much room for him atop the mattress with all their junk. Arcade goes for the next bed instead. It's the same bare-bones cot as all the others, and it squeaks under his weight as he sets himself down. While Arcade's making himself comfortable, the kid works on divesting himself of his remaining clothing. Everything ends up on the floor apart from the hat, which stays deliberately in place.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Six is on top of him, slamming Arcade onto his back. The rush of being skin-to-skin for the first time is exquisite, and the doctor bucks his hips, seeking more intimate contact. But Six isn't having it. For several moments they wrestle, their pale, sweat-slicked limbs tangling on the bed. Six wants him pinned, wants him caged on his back, but there's something so thrilling about resisting... about making Six _work_ for this. And damned if there isn't a pleased little smirk on the courier's lips, as though they're sharing the same thought.

Arcade's fighting just enough to make it a challenge. He's enjoying the way those lean biceps tense and strain to keep him down, flexing so deliciously against the slightest resistance. It's primal, and it makes him feel powerful knowing he could probably flip them over, if he so chose.

Then, he catches a glimpse of the bullet injury on Six's arm. There's a bit of blood seeping through the stitches, trickling over the curve of his bicep. It's not a lot of blood, not enough to panic, but Christ, the stimpak was supposed to have taken care of that. At this rate the kid's got to be a hemophiliac, which is a very real problem considering how often he winds up injured. 

A powerful sense of concern takes over, drawing Arcade out of his haze of lust. "Goddammit," he groans, "you're going to tear those stitches—"

Before he can finish that thought, there's a press of cold metal against his throat. "Then you'll just have to do them again," Six threatens. 

The doctor freezes, shocked to have forgotten all about the knife, and the resistance instantly leaves him. Six's words, however, shoot straight to his cock, which remains painfully hard between them. There's moisture beading at the tip, smearing across his abdomen. And as embarrassed as Arcade is to admit it, he probably _would_ do the stitches again, if Six tore them. He refuses to think too hard on what that means.

"You're not as bossy as you think you are, Doc," Six muses. There's a thoughtful expression on his face as he studies Arcade's now-pliant form beneath him.

A cheeky smile spreads across the doctor's lips. "I don't suppose it would be wise to contest that statement with a knife at my throat, would it?"

Six quirks an eyebrow in amusement. "Why don't you try it and find out?" he asks, and there's a heartbeat's pause in which Arcade thinks he might just be crazy enough to try.

The movements of the courier's hands distract him from that idea. The one with the knife leaves his throat, its cold, metal blade ghosting south over a pale collarbone. The touch is so light, so delicate, that Arcade wonders if he's imagined the sensation. He's covered in goosebumps before the knife even reaches his chest. Meanwhile, the kid's other hand snakes between their bodies, warm fingers encircling the leaking tip of Arcade's arousal.

It's then, just as a whine escapes Arcade's lips, that Six angles the blade to maim. The doctor sees it coming this time, even before he feels the sting; another shallow incision, just below the pink of his nipple. His whine breaks into a near sob before the courier pulls off. The cut is roughly an inch long in the end, not much deeper than the last, but the spot... 

Arcade's taken leave of his senses much quicker than he anticipated. He's left panting heavily in the blade's wake, thrusting his hips up into Six's hand.

"That's more like it."

Arcade squeezes his eyes shut. He can barely think. He just _wants_.

There's a sudden rush of air next to his head, and the doctor opens his eyes to find the knife seated firmly in the mattress, its handle mere inches from his face.

"No, look at me," Six growls, flipping his cap backwards on his head. "I want you to watch when I ride your cock."

Before Arcade can process this development, the kid's lips are on him, hungry and warm. It's no trial to surrender now, and Arcade does. He lets Six claim his mouth, enjoys the roughness, the ferocity behind it. Through it all, he can feel the blood blooming from the wound on his chest. It's hot and sticky where Six has cut him, and when the courier pulls away, he's smeared with it too, like some kind of war paint between their bodies. Arcade's face must be a similar shade of crimson, but he can't bring himself to care. Not when Six's eyes are stormy, half-lidded, and fixed squarely on him.

There's sweaty blue hair plastered to the kid's forehead, some of it poking out from the hole in his cap. He reaches down between them, scooping some of the blood onto his finger, and guides the digit between Arcade's waiting lips. 

"That's it," Six says with a grin. The satisfaction in his voice is enough to make Arcade's cock twitch violently against his stomach, and he tongues gently at the finger in his mouth. "You gonna be good for me, Doc?"

Arcade nods, breathless, sweating, barely holding himself together. Six is all around him, fingers still moving over his cock, between his lips... Arcade has never been teased so thoroughly in his life.

"Let me hear you say it."

The courier removes his finger to facilitate this, and Arcade can't help but lament its loss. Under the kid's blistering gaze, he smacks his lips, still slick with saliva. The metallic taste of blood lingers on his tongue, though there's something else too, a hint of Six, the earthy flavour of his skin. Arcade swallows against the sudden lump in his throat.

"Yes," he rasps. "Please..."

The voracious smile he receives in return is worth it.

Six reaches for his pack and comes back with some kind of lotion. He slicks his fingers with it, and they soon disappear behind him. Arcade can't see what he's doing, but he knows by the flex of the kid's bicep and the way his jaw goes slack that he must be stretching himself. The mere thought is enough to make the doctor dizzy with desire, and he bucks his hips, desperate for friction, worried he'll fly apart at the seams if he doesn't get more of Six.

He's not left to worry for long. The courier finishes his preparations quickly, one hand reaching down to slick Arcade with lotion as well. He's ready to take what he wants, the ruthless look in his eyes says as much, and he wastes no time lining himself up with Arcade's straining flesh. Blunt fingernails dig into the doctor's forearms, trapping them against the mattress as Six begins to lower himself. They both moan when the tip of Arcade's cock slips inside, slick and insistent.

He lets gravity do most of the work after that, sinking further down, drawing Arcade deeper inside of him. It's not long before they're pressed together as intimately as possible. The warmth alone has Arcade's eyes nearly rolling back in his head. Every inch of him, surrounded by that exquisite pressure; it's both perfect and not enough.

_This is an addiction_ , Arcade thinks to himself. A craving as potent as any chem. One that could easily devour him whole, burn him up from the inside out like radiation sickness, and he would fucking let it. Would probably even welcome it, knowing that somewhere along the way he lost himself to this; to the pleasure and the violence and the thrill of braving the wastes alongside this stupid kid that actually makes him _feel_ something other than misery or regret for once in his life.

It's a moment of clarity that warrants later inspection. Much later.

Two lithe thighs, all scar and sinew, are draped on either side of Arcade's hips. His skin feels like it's on fire where they're connected, but he can't touch freely, not with the grip Six has on his arms. He can't do much of anything, which is quite on purpose, he's sure. Arcade wants desperately to dig his fingers into those pale hips and thrust, to fuck the kid within an inch of his life... but it's clear he'll only be getting what Six wants to give him, and nothing more.

The doctor hazards a glance at the knife handle next to his head. It wouldn't take much for Six to bring the blade against his throat again. The thought makes him shiver and he swallows hard, unwilling to take the risk, motionless but for the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

"So beautiful when you give in..." Six whispers, and it sounds more like an escaped thought than something intended for the doctor's ears. Arcade thrills at it all the more.

A moment passes, and still Six hasn't moved. He's staring down at the doctor, flushed to the neck, lips parted, clearly waiting for something. There's sweat beading across his chest, congealing with the smeared blood from Arcade's wound. The doctor catches a glint of something dark in his eyes, something almost feral, and a brief moment of panic rises in his chest. No, Arcade thinks, Six wouldn't hurt him, not beyond a shallow drag of the knife. 

_Would_ he?

In the end, Arcade either doesn't know or doesn't care. "Please," he whimpers. His voice sounds broken and needy even to him.

"You want more?" 

Blunt fingernails dig deeper into his arms, not enough to draw blood, but surely enough to bruise. Arcade can already imagine the marks, small and crescent-shaped, that he'll find there in the morning. 

He needs Six to move, he's aching for the friction, blood thrumming inside his veins. He nods, just a tiny jerk of his head, but it's not enough.

"Tell me," the kid presses. It's an ultimatum. He wants to hear Arcade ask for it.

There's anguish, it must be written across the doctor's face, but really, what shame is there left in him now? 

"Fuck me," he pleads, and damned if his cock doesn't throb at the sound of those words. "Six, please."

He gets his wish. The first slide of flesh is sudden and electric. The courier unseats himself almost entirely, but it's the down stroke that nearly undoes Arcade. A smile finds its way onto Six's lips—that goddamn, shit-eating smile—as he finds the perfect angle and presses his hips down roughly into the doctor's lap.

Arcade's breath catches in his throat and his head flops back onto the mattress, rocked with the force of the motion. He decides immediately that he likes Six in his lap. The kid's a performer, that much had been evident back at the Wrangler, but _fuck_ , he's amazing in this position. Forget running packages, the kid was made to ride cock...

He's rougher with himself than Arcade was and sets a punishing pace that leaves them both struggling for breath before long. He soon finds the perfect angle to hit his prostate on every thrust. The precision involved is impressive when they're both so clearly falling apart, but it's obvious that Six isn't shy about taking what he wants.

One of his hands releases its grip on Arcade's arm and snakes down to his own neglected arousal. The kid's eyes slip closed for a moment as he strokes himself in time with each downward drag of his hips. Arcade can't tear his eyes away from the sight. He's so distracted that he nearly forgets that his arm is now free. The realization fills him with mischief and he reaches up to knock Six's hat off before he can think better of the idea.

Blue strands spill down across the kid's forehead as the trader cap sails to the floor, far out of reach. There's a growl, low in the courier's throat, but it's the sight of that blue mop, damp with sweat, falling into Six's eyes that seems to undo Arcade more than anything. He arches, chest heaving, one hand tangling in the kid's hair as the pleasure rips through his body. Six fucks him through it with a grin, leaning down to lick at the shell of Arcade's ear as the doctor shudders beneath him.

"I'm not done with you yet," Six warns, voice thick with arousal.

There's no chance for a reply, not once the kid continues to impale himself on Arcade's cock. The doctor is thoroughly spent, his flesh sensitive to the point of over-stimulation and he whimpers, squirming under the renewed assault.

They can both feel the sticky wetness between them now, leaking down the inside of the kid's thighs where they're joined. It seems all the more lewd now, not that Arcade's complaining. His free hand tightens in the kid's hair, trying to anchor himself to something, anything...

" _Six_ ," he groans, desperate, but the courier is lost to the sensations, head lolling to the side as he drives himself down over and over. 

Before long, a loud cry tears itself from Six's throat. His back goes rigid, and with one last roll of his hips, he spills hard over Arcade's stomach. 

They're both trembling in the aftermath, covered in sweat, muscles screaming where they've been overly taxed. It takes them a moment to catch their breath; the air of the safehouse feels humid and oppressive around them. Eventually Six recovers enough to pull back, sweeping a handful of blue hair off his forehead as Arcade slips free. He's still flushed, they both are, but there's a smug look on the kid's face now. He lets out a pleasant little chuckle and rises to his feet in one languid motion.

"You're a good ride, Doc," he says with a wink. 

Arcade smiles and props himself up on his elbows. "Is that the kind of skill set they're teaching all the couriers these days?" he jokes. "Mojave Express must have one hell of a training manual."

Six fetches a clean cloth from his pack. There's a playful grin on his lips as he tosses it at the doctor's head. "I'm choosing to take that as a compliment."

"As it was intended."

The kid merely huffs in response, but there's no denying the satiated look in those blue eyes. Six got what he wanted. They both did.

Arcade uses the proffered cloth to address the mess on his chest. The mix of fluids is making his skin itch, and he's grateful for the chance to wipe himself clean. Six is using an old t-shirt to do the same. It's not quite a shower, but it'll have to do. They can't afford to waste their drinking water on this, not if they're to make it to Jacobstown tomorrow without dropping dead.

"You had to go for the nipple," Arcade remarks, taking extra care around the shallow cut. The bleeding has stopped, but the angry red line remains, just a fraction of an inch below his areola.

That earns him a chuckle, at least, and he glances up to discover that a cigarette has made it's way into Six's mouth. The kid's still nude, glorious and completely unabashed, as he lights the thing with a matchbook.

"I didn't hear you complaining."

He's got a point. It's Arcade's turn to huff now, and he does, rising from the mattress to tug on a clean pair of boxers. He's a little worse for wear in the wake of their exertions, but he too is sated. The stresses of the day seem distant now, his thoughts reduced to a quiet hum in the back of his mind. Only a single, lingering concern remains at the forefront, which Arcade moves to address. He peers curiously at the stitches on Six's arm to inspect the damage. 

The courier follows his line of sight and shakes his head. "They're fine, Doc."

"They're not," Arcade contests. "They're a mess." There's no more blood, Six has already wiped it away, but a few of the stitches at the end have come loose. He won't have to redo them all, just the last five or so, which for him is no trial at all. The doctor reaches instinctively for his supplies, only to find Six blocking his path.

"Six," he chides. "Don't be stubborn. I need to—"

The protest dies on Arcade's lips the moment the kid leans up into him. The timing is unexpected, and the doctor's eyes flutter shut in surprise as their mouths meet. He parts his lips, allows the slow, languid slide of that skilled tongue against his own and kisses the courier back in kind. The kid tastes like smoke; he's still got his cigarette in one hand, though has apparently abandoned it for a higher pleasure.

When Six's free hand reaches up to trace the line of his jaw, Arcade leans into the touch. He makes a tiny, contented noise in the back of his throat and he's sure he feels those warm lips curl into a grin against his own.

No longer lost in the throes of their little game, they're free to take their time in this, and they do. Arcade enjoys the chance to explore the kid's mouth at his leisure. He delights in the drag of Six's stubble against his skin, the feel of those soft, blue strands tickling the sides of his face. They've never kissed each other like this before. The feeling is exquisite.

After some time, it's Six who pulls away. His lips are flushed and wet as he meets the doctor's gaze. Arcade's all but forgotten about the stitches until Six smooths a hand over his face and says, "You can fix them tomorrow."

Heat rises in Arcade's cheeks. Is this really all it takes to make him blush like a schoolboy?

"Tomorrow," he agrees.

They spend a few minutes tidying up their gear and leave it piled neatly on one of the cots, ready for the morning. It's Six's idea to push two of the beds together, _for more room_ , as he puts it, and Arcade's happy to oblige. If this is the courier's way of saying he wants to be close to Arcade, then he'll take it.

The mattresses aren't very comfortable—one of the rusty springs digs into Arcade's back as he lays down—but it's still better than a bedroll. They settle carefully on either side of the small gap in between the metal frames, and angle themselves to face one another. 

The silence that follows is a comfortable one. There's no need to fill it with idle chatter. Arcade's certainly placated enough just lying next to Six, even if it's at arm's length. This is twice now that they've shared a bed, twice that they've shared their bodies, too. There aren't many people Arcade can say that about. He wonders if the same is true for Six.

"After we're done in Jacobstown, I want to go after Benny," the kid says after a while.

The statement takes Arcade by surprise. They haven't discussed Benny since the Wrangler. "Why now?" he asks, curious.

Blue eyes flicker across the doctor's face. The vulnerability in their depths is yet another surprise. "I'm tired of running," Six admits.

It's an answer Arcade's glad to hear. There was no way to avoid the Strip forever, not if they're going to do any real good in New Vegas. And despite all the courier's hang-ups—even his taste for violence—Arcade still believes that Six is the man for that job. 

"I'm with you," the doctor says. He doesn't intend for such deep conviction in his voice, but it's there, whether he likes it or not, and the sentiment doesn't go unnoticed.

There's an almost imperceptible quirk of Six's eyebrow in response. "I'm going to kill him, Arcade. You know that, right?"

"After what he did to you? I damn well hope so."

The look of disbelief on the courier's face is worth it. "You're serious?" he asks. His tone is breathy, excited; Arcade's never heard him like this before. It reminds him how young Six is, how much has been taken away from him. One of the kid's hands finds its way across the gap in the beds and he tangles his fingers with Arcade's. "I thought I'd have to leave you with the Followers."

"I've seen you kill plenty of people, most of whom deserved it a lot less than Benny," Arcade points out. "Like I said, I'm with you."

It's enough to draw a genuine smile out of Six. The doctor returns the gesture, staring into that pale face, framed on either side by soft, blue waves and wonders if this is what peace feels like.

They fall asleep like that, holding hands, and in the morning, Arcade does end up doing the stitches over again.

This time, neither of them complain.


End file.
